


with moon in your body and sun in your eyes

by percivale



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuuin no Tsurugi | Fire Emblem: Binding Blade
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-12
Updated: 2019-09-12
Packaged: 2020-10-16 22:40:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20610527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/percivale/pseuds/percivale
Summary: Rutger contemplates his journey through his gender identity while on night watch; he trudges through his inner conflict as the result of living in a culturally gray area, and carries it with him under the imposing dark. [written for the FE Rally Spectrum zine]





	with moon in your body and sun in your eyes

_ “They did not mind that I wasn’t a full Sacaen… nor that I could not be a woman. They’d say, ‘under the protection of our earth and sky, all of us are welcome.’ Our Mother and our Father want all of their children to be happy and free in their plains, and across the world… that is what they told me. I believed them. I was happy. My own mother and father… at a spiritual ceremony, they were told I would be a strong warrior… that I, a man, would march with the other men. But by this point, I had already known.”  _

.

In the air a smoky smell prevailed even without fire; by the sunset Roy’s army finally crossed the border into Bern. Rutger remembered a phrase he’d heard in his childhood: “Nations that produce love smell of love.” Before the war Bulgar smelled of vegetables and bread, of children hiding in the crevices of the city. It integrated itself into you, woven into your identity like a tapestry; a Sacaen could tell you were from Bulgar as they embraced you, catching the scent on the wind of the plains. Bern smelled like scorched earth, like a flaring ember, like the endless burning breath of the dragons. And the aroma of war permeated even Bulgar; there was no more bread, no more children in the streets. It was ash now, like everything else: his family, his childhood, the faint light of day.

.

“Roy.”

The last vestiges of the sunset faded behind the thickest mess of trees and brush Rutger had ever seen in his life. All of the oldest in the army were already fixated on building camp, finding refuge in the resources of the land. Someone in the distance banged sticks together in a slow staccato.

“Rutger? Is that you?”

Roy’s voice came like a bell amongst the din of working soldiers. The young general turned back around the corner but had already recognized Rutger’s voice as he approached. He carried scraps of dead wood in his arms, and his knees shook slightly.

“If you’re still gathering volunteers for night patrol, I’m willing to go.” 

A cicada screeched in the canopy above. Roy seemed to consider setting his load down, but decided against it. “Oh, yes, I was looking for a couple more,” he replied. “So it would be you, Noah, Hugh--”

“Alone,” Rutger added, abruptly, his voice like the dreadful  _ crack _ of a ballista. “I want to go alone.”

“What?” With a low groan, Roy reconsidered his firewood, and it crashed in a heap into the grass; and he nearly fell forward. “Are you… sure? I was going to assign everyone in pairs tonight.”

“Positive.”

“We’re in Bern now… while I wouldn’t expect the main army to stray far from the Shrine of Seals, there’s nothing we can be sure of anymore. And, well…”

“What?”

Concern shaded Roy’s eyes, but his words never came. Rutger had a few seething assumptions, none of which would see the light of day. And the kid general wasn’t adept at dealing with stubbornness, and also rather tired. “I’ll give you the east side of camp,” he conceded, “by the edge of the woods. I won’t stop you, but if anything happens, send us a signal as fast as possible.”

Rutger’s boots shifted in the dirt. His cloak like a red tide singed the edge of Roy’s vision as his figure slipped into the blooming night, his silence infecting the atmosphere so thick even the screeching in the canopy became inaudible. “We need everyone for this war,” Roy shouted behind him, his tone strange and desperate. But Rutger was already gone.

.

_ “Rutger. What do you think makes a memory? Is it merely the image of what you remember, or do you account for your feelings during the event? And what of the dread in your present day? Is it part of the memory, or part of your heart?” _

.

The thickets began to part here, giving way to his first glimpse of the moon; a thin crescent, like the blade of a sickle. Rutger was bathed in a greenish light, the remnants of a spell. He’d extinguished the torch he carried—to preserve his night vision, and merely because he preferred it. Light was handy in a group, but alone it made him feel like a target. And he’d already felt like a target here in Bern.

Something possessed him to look at his hand. With the sickly light of the moon, his skin reflected in such a way it appeared he was emanating his own light. Back in Bulgar he managed to seek out one of the few remaining shamans in the area, twice Rutger’s age and from the Kutolah. He could feel the silk of his chevron robes, the echo of the man’s voice as he regarded Rutger thoughtfully.  _ “You started your journey so long ago already,” _ he remarked.  _ “Much earlier than most of us, haven’t you?” _ He’d felt almost patronized, for a moment. But this man had known his father, even if his name escaped him; and he had no need for his name anyhow, there in that place.  _ “You might not need my treatment anymore. But perhaps, if you find something is missing…” _

From his small satchel he pulled a corked bottle, immersing it along with everything else in the ghostly moonlight. The last dose of a thick, pallid liquid oscillated inside the glass as he raised it in front of him. Magic of this caliber was a ritual—transformations, as Rutger understood it, were on a higher level than the flashy combat magics used for fighting. It took a different branch of arcane dedication, so much that he never met a shaman in Sacae below their 40s. Often they sought payment in rare ingredients needed for preparation over any coin or currency. Rutger once spent hours locating a specific strain of trumpet flower, the ones that opened at night, revealing their starlike shape. 

He uncorked the bottle and stole the last swig, swallowing it quickly before his palate caught the taste. A feeling overcame him and a tension clenched his body; almost immediately he found himself locked in a defensive position, hand hovered over the hilt of his sword, the bottle fallen and cracked against the dirt. Had his motion alerted someone? With clenched teeth he peered back into the trees, through the in-betweens of each trunk. Without a torch he could pose as an animal, risk the delight of a hunter. But after several minutes of his own breaths against the still air, he relaxed.

.

Bern was not his friend. The dread started to take him now. In his flashes of rage he pounded the ground, the trunks of trees; it was as if something possessed him, forced his body to act automatically. The last phase of his ritual, interrupted by some stray creature or dying branch; how much more would this place take from him? Pride in his heritage, and now the sacredness of his manhood—the harrowing force of this brought him to his knees, tears dotting the dust. 

It was strange. For him it’d been so smooth, as if no one in his life had ever considered him a woman. As if his name had always been Rutger. Yet there’d been a ghost that remained; an apparition of apparitions that now howled with the rest of the ghosts of Bulgar. He brought up his hand to rub his stubble, which felt like sand against stone; and gazed at his palm again, in the moonlight. It was not brittle, and did not rub off. A tear hit his palm. He sat back up, his sobs no longer heaving his breaths, and his silence cut through the forest. He inhaled steadily.

“I am Rutger,” he said to himself, quietly.

His voice was gruff like usual. But there was something that, in the heat of battle or the noise of camp, he didn’t usually hear. It was something in the timbre of his voice. It sounded darker, less inhibited; and he knew he would have recalled this sound, had it been there before. He returned to the bruised ground and retrieved the cracked bottle; it brought to mind thin roots, illuminated by the looming morning, spreading far from the impact site. A haphazard web of light. Rutger spent time rubbing the dust away from the glass, fixated on its beauty despite the trauma.

He relaxed, for the first time in so long.

.

In the new dawn his footsteps reminded him of soft drums, and the smell of warm food rose across the nearing camp. Rutger was a man from Bulgar, with pale skin, and he wanted to believe there was another thing he loved. He wanted to believe that the earth could recover from the scars of war, and the sky from the smog of hate. He wanted to taste the fresh harvest and speak in his new voice.

The soft pink of the sky warmed him like a soft dream, carrying him back to Roy and the others with the sun in his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> (I could have written this in many more words but I had to keep the idea within the word limit; I was insecure about it, but I think it turned out pretty ok. the prompt was "trans rutger" which I suggested myself. obviously I wrote this with my own experience as a trans&mixed person in mind. thanks for reading)


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